Two Gifts From My Father
by Esther-Channah
Summary: Jim Gordon discovers the family secret—and gets some wise advice from a former vigilante. Set shortly after Batman Year One.


**Disclaimer**: James Gordon, Gotham City, and Batman are owned by DC Comics. James Gordon, Quick Trigger, The Whisperer, and Lakeside were created by Laurence Donovan (writing as Clifford Goodrich). "The Whisperer" is a trademark owned by Advance Magazine Publishers Inc.

**Timeline:** Batman Year One

**Summary: **Jim discovers the family secret

**Two Gifts from My Father**

Dad was in his fifties when I was born. Late fifties. He told me once that he hadn't expected to make it to retirement and didn't want to bring kids into the world who he wouldn't live to see grow up. Well, instead of being afraid that he'd be shot by some hitman or two-bit crook with a grudge, I was afraid he'd keel over from old age before I finished high school. I should've known better. Anyone tough enough to serve as police commissioner in a town like Lakeside at the height of Prohibition, and then stay on for more than two decades, and then retire to live out his golden years in a city that had been even more notorious for organized crime, back in the day? I mean, you'd think that someone who did his bit to stop mobsters and bootleggers in his prime would have retired to some place other than Chicago. But that was Dad.

I went back to see him right after I got promoted to Captain. Dad was almost ninety, then. Still in good shape. Make that great shape for someone his age; good shape for just about anyone. His hearing was starting to go. His prescription lenses were a bit thicker, and he needed a cane for long distances, but he still made it a point to do three miles on the treadmill every day, plus swimming twice a week, and a five mile hike in the Palos Preserves on Sundays—as long as the trail didn't ice over. His mind was sharp as ever, and he'd been doing his homework on Gotham.

"Heard you've had a bit of a helping hand, lately," he said, after we'd gotten past the hugs and greetings and telling each other how good we looked and mostly meaning it. "Unsolicited, I mean."

That floored me. Sure, the Gotham dailies had picked up on Batman, but I didn't think word had reached Chicago.

Dad laughed. "I took out a subscription to the Gotham _Herald_, the day you told me you'd taken the job," he said. "I figured between what you think I can hear without having a heart attack and what I find out from the press, I'll get a decent idea of what you're actually dealing with. Now, about this Batman…"

Something must've shown on my face. I'd actually been looking forward to a few days without hearing about Gotham's newest vigilante.

"Sore spot?" Dad asked me.

I sighed. "He's taking the law into his own hands. If he wants to help, let him be a cop."

"That's no picnic either," Dad said. "And sometimes…" He let out a long breath. "I guess we _are_ going to have that conversation, after all."

Only he didn't seem to be in any hurry to have it. He must've stood there, shifting his weight from the cane back to his feet for a good couple of minutes—which felt like a good couple of hours. Finally, he walked over to the bay window and stood there, looking out at the street. "Now, I'm sorry I gave up smoking. I could really use a snipe, right about now."

Snipes. That's what he called my cigarettes, the first time he caught me lighting up in the back yard. I started to reach into my pocket, but the old man had eyes in the back of his head and they didn't need glasses.

"Keep 'em." He said sharply. "Now, Jimmy… Jim, I'm not exactly going to stand here and tell you that a mid-sized city in upstate New York in the 30s was just like Gotham, because it wasn't. But it was corrupt. That was something I had to deal with as police commissioner, back in the day. We were lucky to get the small fish, and they were usually sprung the next day; a lot my people were taking bribes to look the other way—or paying bribes so that their superiors would. I wanted to put a stop to it, only I knew that if I did things the correct way, the legal way, well, it wouldn't be the right way and it would be the stupid way. Drive-by shootings have been happening for a long time, Jim. I wasn't fixing to find the bullet with my name on it anytime soon. Your mother's grandfather," he was choosing his words more deliberately now, "Dick Traeger—he went by 'Quick Trigger,' back then; I ever tell you about him?"

He never talked much about the old days, and Quick Trigger had been long gone before I was born, but I'd pieced together a few things. "I know he looked out for you after… um…"

"After my old man died of influenza, yep. Quick Trigger was a deputy commissioner then—he took an interest in me, Heaven only knows why, but he did. He was a big part of why I joined the police force, and probably why I wanted the commissioner job in the first place—even though he'd retired by then. Yeah, Quick Trigger was my friend, mentor, father… eventually, well, call him grandfather-in-law, but he was also my partner in crime." He turned back to face me then. "And I do mean that literally."

I must've blinked. Was Dad trying to tell me that he'd been working _for_ the mob? I couldn't believe that. I wouldn't.

"Stop looking at me like I'm some crumb," he snapped, but he was smiling as he said it. "Sometimes, if you want to catch lawbreakers, you need to bend the law a little. I knew that people tended to speak a bit more freely if they didn't know that a copper was in earshot, so I came up with an idea. Or we did; me and Quick Trigger.

"Quick Trigger knew how to make dental plates. He never told me how and I never asked him. He made a set for me and when I wore them, they changed the look of my face—made my upper lip look longer and gave my chin a bit more prominence. They weren't that comfortable, but they weren't bad."

I frowned. "How did you talk?"

And that was when Dad smiled and leaned forward, as if he was sharing some big secret—which he was; I just hadn't realized how big, yet. "In whispers, Jimmy. In _whispers_."

And then, it hit me. I wasn't the first Gordon to operate in a town with vigilante activity. Back in the 30s, the Lakeside Police Department had also had some unofficial assistance. But from what Dad was saying… "You?" I gaped at him. "You were The Whisperer?"

Dad smiled. "Those black-and-white photos in the albums don't do 'em justice, but I know you've seen my old suits hanging in the cedar closet. Do you really think I liked wearing lime-green suits with orange pinstripes and polka-dot ties? But The Whisperer was a gray, bent-over Joe in a gray coat, so drab and ordinary, you wouldn't look twice at him. I figured if the commish had a rep for dressing like a dandy, well, that would put even more distance between me and…" he chuckled, "…me."

His expression turned serious. "Now, this Batman… he killed anyone yet?"

I shook my head. "No. Not that I know of, anyway."

"Ever seen him drunk? Or stoned?"

"No."

"If he had a choice between saving a life and stopping a crook and could only do one, what would he pick?"

I didn't even have to think on that one. It had already happened, more than once. "Save a life."

Dad nodded. "Then ask yourself if you're better off with his help or without it, and if it's with… then you do your job and let him do his." He smiled. "You'll probably have it easier than I did in one respect: it's not easy leading a double life. Of course, when those idiot bureaucrats and politicians come to call and you're stuck in the office…" He laughed. "Believe me, if I could've been sure that nobody would spot The Whisperer sneaking out of my office, I would've missed a lot more meetings."

I smiled at that. I'd been butting heads with my own politicians; more of them, now that I'd made captain. Still… "Dad, you know, that bit about you being The Whisperer, it sounds…"

"Like I'm pulling your leg?" Dad smiled. "Here. Catch." He reached into his pocket and flipped me a small key. "That unlocks the middle desk drawer in the study. Pull it out as far as it'll go and you'll find a flat tin box near the back. Bring it here."

When I came back with the box, he made no move to take it. "Did you open it?" he asked.

I shook my head.

"Go on."

I started to, but then I realized it wasn't necessary. "It's the plates," I said. "Isn't it?"

"Yep. Go ahead. Have a look."

I shook my head. "It's okay, Dad," I said. "I believe you. I don't need proof."

He nodded. "That's right," he said, pleased. "You don't. Because sometimes, if you have real proof of something, you need to act on it. It might force you to make some hard decisions. If you only _suspect_ something but can't prove it… you have a few more options." He leaned a bit closer. "For the record, the statute of limitations ran out long ago on any law-bending I did as The Whisperer. Not that I seriously think you'd try to arrest your old man, Jimmy, but I wouldn't be telling you any of this if it were going to put you in an uncomfortable position. But if you do decide to work with this vigilante—and I'm not saying you should or you shouldn't—you might find yourself getting curious about who he is and what he does when he's not in that costume. It's fine to guess. But you might not want to _know,_ you get what I'm saying?"

I did. And he was right. "Should I put this away?" I asked, holding up the box.

"Nah, take it with you. These days, I wear a different set. Think of it as a souvenir. Something you can show the grandkids, one day."

When I left Chicago a week later, I carried two gifts from my father: the dental plates, and the best advice he ever gave me. I've kept many secrets over the years—my father's is just one of them. But I'd have to be blind not to notice that my daughter and Dick Grayson have been growing a lot closer together lately. And if I'm going to have Bats for in-laws—okay, Dad. _Suspected _Bats. I hear you—then maybe it's time let a few more secrets out into the open.


End file.
